Not Nice
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Part of the Inside Out series. Sherlock said that Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship was not nice. This is what he was talking about. Mystrade!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Not Nice

**Author:** Mildredandbobbin

**Rating**: M

**Pairing:** Mycroft/Lestrade Sherlock/John

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Summary**: Part of the Inside Out series. In Inside Out:

_"Did you know Greg Lestrade's bisexual?" said John suddenly._

_"Yes," said Sherlock, concentrating on the feel of John's stubble on his fingertips. "He's got some strange arrangement with my brother. I try not to think about it."_

This is what Sherlock was talking about.

**AN:** Ok, here it is, some Mystrade for those of you that asked :)

**Part 1**

Mycroft Holmes stood to one side watching the other mourners mingling after his brother's funeral service. It had been a private service, no press, family and friends only. John and Mrs Hudson had organised the list and it consisted of what seemed to be a microcosm of society, former burglars, doctors, policemen, wealthy individuals and one or two of the homeless. A testament to Sherlock's skill, the loyalty he instilled in those he'd helped.

Detective Inspector Lestrade walked over to him. Mycroft had a number of dealings with the police officer thanks to his association with Sherlock. He had proved to be useful and cooperative about both allowing Sherlock to pursue his little hobby and in keeping a watchful eye on his errant brother. For that Mycroft was grateful. Lestrade's role in Sherlock's recent fall from grace and now, necessary faked death, Mycroft accepted was unavoidable, though unfortunate.

"Mr Holmes, " Lestrade said, holding out his hand to Mycroft to shake. "So sorry mate. Sherlock will be missed."

"Mycroft, please. Yes. He will," said Mycroft taking the proffered hand, large, firm and shaking it briefly. He studied the Detective Inspector. He looked tired and there was a layer of guilt there that spoke to Mycroft. Yes…both of them had failed Sherlock. He sighed. "I – must thank you Detective Inspector for your help to Sherlock in the past five years. It made a difference…to both of us."

Lestrade cleared his throat, nodded and looked away. Something about the obvious emotion struck Mycroft in a way he didn't fully fathom. It made his heart, for want of a better term, ache slightly. He tried to categorise the emotion but couldn't pin point it accurately so he brushed it aside. He studied the man beside him, handsome and now distinguished looking with his silver hair. He'd catalogued and categorised him before and he'd found him loyal and genial with a slight antagonism yet deference towards authority, thanks to an old chip on his shoulder about his working class origins. The policeman also respected Sherlock's intelligence, if not exactly his personality, and had been more than happy to accept Sherlock's help, for which Mycroft had been grateful.

"Well," said Lestrade. "Glad I could help. He was a great man. Hopefully one day the rest of the world will see that." And he tilted his head towards his car. "I'd better get going. No rest for the wicked, hey?"

Mycroft smiled lightly. "Quite."

Lestrade shook Mycroft's hand again. Firm. Warm. "All the best, Mr Holmes."

"You too, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft and watched him go. If Sherlock was successful in his quest to destroy Moriarty's web then he might have the opportunity to see the policeman again, if not, well… Mycroft didn't usually dwell on unlikely outcomes.

Unlike the rest of the mourners, with the exception of Molly Hooper, he knew Sherlock was not dead, but whether or not this would mean he'd ever be able to return was debateable. Sherlock had a plan, Mycroft knew that much, but it was a dangerous, foolhardy one. Unlike the rest of the mourners, he hoped he'd see his brother again, but he wasn't confident that he would.

Twelve months later Sherlock pleasantly surprised him and appeared in his home, ready to rejoin the world again. What followed was a month of shepherding quietly from the background and Gregory Lestrade, as well as John Watson of course, had proven invaluable.

Mycroft couldn't help but notice however, once his concern about Sherlock had dimmed to the normal level of a dull toothache, that his faithful policeman looked strained. His face was drawn and tired, his personal life, a messy divorce, was obviously having an effect on him. He seemed lonely, slightly bitter. It didn't suit him. This idea caught at Mycroft. Gregory Lestrade interested him.

In more fanciful moments Mycroft sometimes envied Sherlock his John, a faithful, loyal, constant companion. Oh he had Anthea of course but she was an employee, she had a fiancé to go home to every evening, friends, family, and her relationship with Mycroft started at 8am and ended, usually, at 5.15pm. And unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had cultivated acquaintances and associates, who if asked, would call him their friend, but he didn't have someone close, someone with whom he could be completely himself. In those same fanciful moments the thought occurred to Mycroft that Gregory Lestrade would make a suitable companion, stable, sensible, yet possessing that same openness and emotion that made John so suited to Sherlock. It was a fanciful moment, Lestrade, after all still wasn't quite yet divorced and despite one or two subtle signs was firmly heterosexual, and unlike Sherlock, Mycroft _did_ enjoy sex. Rather than dwell on impossibilities, he chose to satisfy himself with the occasional pretty and eager MI5 up and comer, or with his semi-regular political connections with the same inclinations as himself. All very impersonal and neat.

The policeman was very appealing however.

* * *

Greg shifted uncomfortably in the stiff leather visitor's chair in Mycroft Holmes's office. He was irritated and felt irritable. Sherlock had only been back from the dead for two months and his brother Mycroft had already summoned Greg to have a "chat" four times. Chat as in, give orders, which were phrased in such a pompous weasel-word way that made it sound like they was just a suggestion. As usual Greg felt uncomfortable, analysed, as if he was on a performance review, and at the same time annoyed because Mycroft Holmes was not his boss and he didn't have to answer to him.

Mycroft Holmes was exactly the sort of person that made Greg Lestrade start to feel bolshie, all that upper class, public school privilege that made him feel both at once resentful and acutely aware of his position in life. This summoning had been occurring nearly as long as Greg had known Sherlock and he always left the "meeting" feeling vaguely as if he'd failed somehow. It had stopped while Sherlock had been away, except for one, short, terse visit, where Mycroft had handed him a file containing enough evidence to condemn Jim Moriarty to purgatory. He'd been sent away feeling even more guilty than ever for Sherlock's suicide, if that had been possible. The next day however, his suspension had been miraculously lifted and the Chief Superintendent was on the phone apologising for the 'silly misunderstanding'; leaving Greg feeling even more at the mercy of Mycroft Holmes than ever.

"I'm sure you understand, Detective Inspector," Mycroft was saying with a smarmy smile, fixing his gaze on Greg.

"Yeah, got it," he sighed, deliberately breaking eye contact. "Well, if that's all Mr Holmes- " he said, standing. It was a shit day, Greg was thigh high in paperwork, his divorce had only come through a week ago and he was having to call the lawyers every couple of hours to sort out this weekend's visit with his daughter. He really didn't need to be dealing with the bloody Holmes's. He must have shown it, because suddenly Mycroft frowned, stood up from his desk and crossed to where Greg was standing. Greg waited, suddenly caught by those too penetrating eyes.

"Detective Inspector, Gregory, may I call you Gregory?" Mycroft asked in that low tone that made something shiver across Greg's shoulder blades.

"Greg, yeah," said Greg and for the life of him he couldn't look away.

"Greg…" Mycroft seemed to find this slightly amusing and he tilted his head to one side, lips pressed thin. "You seem a lonely man, Gregory, forgive me, Greg. I notice you've finally given up wearing your wedding ring."

"Was that a question?" Greg asked, bristling a little, the topic was still raw and personal.

"No, no, just an assessment." And Mycroft Holmes moved into his personal space, looked him up and down in a manner that Greg could only call deliberate and then returned his gaze to his face, considering him. Greg sucked in a breath, his pulse suddenly racing though he wasn't sure exactly why.

"I would very much like to suck your cock…Greg," said Mycroft, and his lips quirked into a smile and for some god unknown reason Greg just said, "Ok." And just held his breath as Mycroft Bloody Holmes sank to his knees in front of him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, but fuck, it had been too long since he'd had sex, and much longer still since someone had done this (one of the first things to go in his marriage) and he'd just gotten divorced and he wasn't going to get to see his kid without paying more bloody money to fucking blood sucking lawyers and his bitch of an ex-wife was marrying a fucking PE teacher and everybody was having sex except him and now someone was on their knees gagging for his cock and who the fuck was he to say no? So he didn't say no. Instead he gripped the back of the squeaking leather chair with one hand and held onto Holmes with the other and just shut his eyes and pretended it was somebody, anybody else, ex-wife-cute-pathologist-woman-off-that-show-page-three-girl gripping his hips and sucking his cock.

He gritted his teeth and kept his eyes shut tight as he came and then when he felt the mouth and hands release him he stepped back, vision blurred, breathing heavily.

"God," he said, fumbling with shaky hands to do up his trousers. He risked a glance at Mycroft Holmes, who was just getting to his feet, adjusting his own trousers. "Look – sorry, Mycroft, don't know what – I don't, um, this is not something I do-" He ran his hand through his hair. "I should – I've got to go." He frowned. "Thanks, yeah?"

And Mycroft tilted his head to one side, smiled lightly. "No, of course, thank you, Gregory. Good afternoon."

"Yeah….you too." And Greg left the office as quickly as he could.

* * *

It was two weeks before Greg heard from Mycroft Holmes again and he had pretty much managed to repress the events of his last visit with Mycroft. All the same, hearing that smooth, dangerous voice again brought it all back and Greg found himself shifting in his chair and turning away from the door in case anyone walked past.

"Detective Inspector, I do hope you would be so good as to drop by this afternoon. There is an urgent matter I need to speak with you about."

And Greg agreed and dutifully waited outside for the black car to pick him up.

Sherlock again, of course, more of Moriarty's associates. Greg rubbed his hand over his eyes and agreed to Mycroft's 'suggestions'.

"You're not sleeping Gregory," Mycroft said then, the change of subject taking Greg unawares.

"No. Not well. Busy at work, the new flat's noisy," he shrugged, not wanting to get into his problems.

"Yes, one imagines it must be difficult to adjust to sleeping alone after, how many years of marriage? Fifteen, no fourteen." Mycroft studied him for a moment, lips pursed. Greg was struck by how different he was to Sherlock, appearance (prissy looking and orderly while Sherlock was cool and effortless), mannerisms (fuck he _had_ manners), yet so alike, like they could both see inside your head. He felt himself blushing, then grew irritated because how old was he, for fuck's sake? Mycroft's lips quirked into a smile.

"Fourteen, yeah," said Greg.

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment. He considered Greg for a moment more, his eyes never flickering from his face. "Gregory, on a personal note, I did enjoy our…interlude…last time. I was hoping you might…indulge me again."

Greg stared at him for a moment, and then realised yes, he was asking what it sounded like he was asking.

He swallowed as Little Greg made up its own mind on the matter. "Look, Mr Holmes, Mycroft, I- It's not that I didn't _appreciate_ it, but, I'm not gay."

"No, of course not Detective Inspector. Not even bisexual, I'm sure." The tone was slightly snide, condescending. It made Greg bristle.

"Not that I knew about anyway," muttered Greg. And part of him was wondering why he was trying to talk his way out of a blow job anyway, especially one which involved getting this pompous git on his knees.

Mycroft seemed to find this amusing. "Hmm yes. One thinks Freud would not have been quite so successful if our libidos were easy to understand."

Greg looked at Mycroft. Mycroft looked back at him. Greg cleared his throat. "All right."

Mycroft stood and walked around his desk towards Greg, not taking his eyes off him. Greg got to his feet quickly, taking a deep breath, his heart going faster than he would like. He clenched his jaw as Mycroft stepped into his personal space and with a twitch of an eyebrow reached out one hand and adjusted the lapel on Greg's jacket. Greg frowned, fuck it, if they were going to do this – and he gripped Mycroft by the collar and hauled him forward into a sharp, fast kiss.

"Ah," said Mycroft as if that explained everything and in one movement sank to his knees again.

Greg shut his eyes and hung on, but this time he couldn't quite tune out the fact that it was Mycroft Holmes at his feet, couldn't shut out the sound of Mycroft's hand moving on his own cock while he gripped Greg's hip with the other, couldn't help but know his own hand was resting on short hair and gripping a suit coat, couldn't help but notice that it didn't matter and he got off anyway.

* * *

It kept happening, Mycroft Holmes kept asking him and he kept agreeing. Soon Mycroft wasn't even bothering to pretend to need to talk about Sherlock. It was nearly once a week now that he'd get a booty call, that black car would pull up, he'd be summoned. Always afterwards Greg told himself he that next time he wouldn't go, would say no and tell Holmes he was busy. He never did.

By the fifth time he was pushing Mycroft up against the wall and shoving his tongue down his throat before pushing him down to his knees.

Greg did the sums in his head as he sat waiting in Mycroft's office. Twelve times. This was the twelfth time.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade didn't know himself anymore. Another visit with Mycroft. Another visit that was not about Sherlock. He had never considered himself gay, or even bisexual for that matter, yet somehow this kept happening. Sex. With Sherlock Bloody Holmes's bloody, smug, arrogant, posh as all get brother.

Sure there had been moments when he was younger, in the football locker room, sure, he'd slap a mate on the arse, maybe joke around a little too much, but never this. He'd never even kissed another man before, yet here he was, time after time, shoving his cock down Mycroft Holmes's throat. Teeth clashing as he stuck his tongue down Mycroft's throat as well, before getting on with business.

Maybe it was a power thing, because fuck, Mycroft Holmes was power personified. Maybe it was just a quirk of that eyebrow that made Little Greg stand to attention, do whatever Holmes asked of him. Maybe it was about having that powerful man on his knees, at his feet. Or maybe it was something about seeing someone so normally neat, controlled, orderly, sitting back on his heels looking up at him, stripped of his suit coat, his shirt untucked and agape, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair mussed, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen. Control undone, and fuck me but wasn't that a pretty sight. It always made Greg pause because within a moment it would always be over and Mycroft would be on his feet and straightening everything and it would be as if none of it, whatever it was, ever happened.

Until next time.

And for his part, that familiar self-loathing and embarrassment would start creeping back in almost immediately, once the lust had gone. He'd cough and look away, tuck himself back in, straighten up as well. Exchange the mandatory pleasantry before he was dismissed. And it was a dismissal, Greg understood that loud and clear. He had performed the service that he'd been required for and now he could run along.

Mycroft swept in, shut and locked the door behind him and starting unbuttoning his jacket.

"Gregory, how are you?"

Greg got to his feet and helped Mycroft take off his jacket. "Sick of waiting. Busy then?" he said, throwing the jacket on the desk.

"Tediously. My apologies, a meeting ran over." Mycroft pushed Greg's jacket off his shoulders and Greg shook it onto the floor.

"Can't be helped but I've got to be back by three." He reached for Mycroft's waistcoat, pulling him closer, reaching for the nape of his neck with the other hand to pull him into the kiss that would start proceedings.

Mycroft drew back. "We'll have time then, I have something different in mind today."

Greg hesitated. "Oh…Um, well I guess it's time I reciprocated."

"No, no Gregory, we both know you won't be able to pretend it's not me then," said Mycroft, his smile cool. He leant forward so his lips brushed Greg's ear. "No Gregory, I want you to bend me over the desk and bugger me."

Greg's eyes fluttered shut and he swallowed hard. The idea…well Little Greg wasn't objecting. "Bloody hell, I've never done that before."

"Don't worry, Gregory, I'll tell you what to do."

Oh and that…that right there was why Greg kept doing this.

Afterwards, red faced and shaking from the best sex he'd had in well over a year, Greg pulled on his jacket. Mycroft was fastening his waistcoat. His hair was still a mess, his tie hanging around his shoulders and there was something about this softer version of the man that made Greg hesitate. He reached over and did up the top two buttons of his shirt for him. Mycroft looked down at him, his brow crinkled lightly, as if he was unsure.

Greg grinned. "That…," he said. He stepped back, suddenly embarrassed. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Can't say I expected that. Thanks."

"Eloquent as always Detective Inspector," said Mycroft with a supercilious smirk.

Greg looked down and nodded. "Yeah well, don't really know what to say in the circumstances." He leant forward to give Mycroft a peck on the lips, but the other man put his hands on his chest.

"I don't think that's necessary Detective Inspector, do you? Now don't you have somewhere to be?"

Greg blinked. Right. "Yeah, I do. Afternoon Mycroft." And he turned and let himself out of the office. Mycroft was wrong about one thing though, there was no way Greg had been able to imagine it was anybody else he was fucking.

* * *

Once the door was safely shut, Mycroft locked it again then sank down onto his chair. He felt…shattered? Staggered maybe? He hadn't expected to enjoy instructing Gregory Lestrade in the art of anal intercourse quite so much. The result had been almost overwhelming. He ran his hand over his face and stopped with his hand on his cheek. And then afterwards, when he'd felt so raw and exposed, Gregory's solicitous behaviour had been almost too much to take. It had been affecting, Gregory's reversal to type, feeling the urge to be tender after intercourse. Mycroft had not expected it given the man's usual embarrassment and self-disgust afterwards. It could not be encouraged of course. That sort of indulgence would do Mycroft no good, it would make things…_complicated_. His interest was in satisfying sexual encounters with a man whom he found exceedingly attractive. Nothing more.

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

AN: starting to feel paranoid about smut content - not sure if this is FFnet appropriate anymore? thoughts?

Warnings: sexual scenes between two adult men who are in deep denial.

**Part 2**

Greg told himself that he wouldn't go next time. Would not. Would get some self respect. But he did anyway, his pulse fluttering with anticipation, bloody butterflies in his stomach, for fuck's sake.

Mycroft was at his desk this time, waiting for him.

"Morning," said Greg, shutting and locking the door behind him. "How's your week been?"

"Complex and yet mindlessly tedious, such is the machine that is the bureaucracy, Gregory. And you?"

Greg hung up his jacket. "Busy. Got that triple homicide coming up in court next week, we've been busy crossing our i's dotting our t's. Trying to avoid having to put Sherlock on the stand." He strolled over to Mycroft's perfectly clean desk and leant on the corner. He saw disapproval flicker across Mycroft's face before it was carefully tidied away, Greg knew lounging on his desk annoyed Mycroft, which was why he did it. It was a petty rebellion but it made him feel better about otherwise being at his beck and call.

Mycroft leant back in his chair. "Hm yes, quite. I do wish he could refrain from those vulgar displays of egotism but then what would I know? I'm only his older brother."

Greg laughed. "You just want to smack them across the ear sometimes don't you, younger brothers I mean. Mine –" he shook his head. "You'd swear he was the only one who'd ever had a break up, got a job, anything, I wouldn't understand according to him. And it's like he goes out of his way to be the complete opposite of me, goes into acting, constantly at my mum for money."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Second son syndrome. Unremittingly jealous of their older brothers and forever competing with them for the maternal affection they perceive they've been cheated of."

"Sounds about right," said Greg. He grinned at Mycroft, he liked these rare moments of camaraderie, it made what came next seem a bit more normal.

Mycroft smiled back, lightly. "Well."

Greg licked his bottom lip, took a breath. "Well." And he leaned forward, over Mycroft in his chair and grazed his lips over the other man's. Mycroft's eyes flickered to his and his lips parted slightly but he made no other move, so Greg deepened the kiss, unusually slow, for them. Mycroft responded and soon Greg shifted a knee onto Mycroft's chair and a hand onto the side of Mycroft's face, settling into a long snog. It was different and it wasn't unpleasant and it started an unfurling arousal low in Greg's gut. Unconsciously he let his hand fall, trailing down Mycroft's chest, dipping under his waistcoat briefly before continuing back down until it settled on Mycroft's crotch. The slightest gasp from Mycroft brought Greg back to himself and his hand stilled where he'd been gently stroking. Mycroft drew back from the kiss.

"Gregory-" he warned.

Greg felt his heart pounding. "Shut it," he said. "Just…shut up." And he slipped off the chair to kneel at Mycroft's feet, breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenched, as he undid Mycroft's trousers and freed the other man's already hard cock from its confines. It was…not something Greg thought he'd ever be doing, but none of this was something he thought he'd ever do, and this had gone on so long that there was no good reason not to do this. Besides, Mycroft's words last time still rang in his ears like a challenge. He wasn't some shrinking violet, he knew full well who he was fucking, had stopped imagining it was anyone else after the first time, if he was honest. There was no reason he couldn't reciprocate. He didn't need Mycroft to mollycoddle him.

* * *

Mycroft had to acknowledge that Gregory's commanding tone had been…thrilling. He was reminded that the man was a senior police officer, used to giving orders, being obeyed. He felt his pulse race and his arousal grow as Gregory slid down to kneel at his feet, jaw clenched, defiant.

Mycroft swallowed any verbal response and just breathed. He wanted…yes he wanted but it was dangerous to pull down this barrier between them. Dangerous to let Gregory take the lead, to give, but his resistance fell away as he felt the first beautifully hesitant touch of Gregory's tongue and then lips, then warm wet mouth.

His hand slid into Gregory's hair, stroking through the soft silver and he leant his head back against the chair and enjoyed. Gregory soon found a comfortable rhythm and Mycroft couldn't hold back an occasional gasp or moan against the mounting pleasure. He heard Gregory unzip his own trousers and then the tantalising sound of the other man masturbating as he pleasured Mycroft.

* * *

Greg felt sordid and dirty, wanking off as he sucked another man's cock under his desk, but fuck, it was hot. Mycroft was making wanting, needy sounds and Greg could tell the other man was close, balls tight and cock throbbing, he kept sucking, close himself.

"Gregory-" gasped Mycroft, his fingers clenching on his hair. "My god-" And this bitten off response was enough to send Greg over the edge and he groaned around Mycroft's cock as he came on the floor in front of him. And then Mycroft was moaning and Greg had to swallow hard to keep from choking.

He sat back, gasping, wiping his mouth and looked up at Mycroft. The other man looked…well…shagged; eyes closed, head back against his chair, breathing heavily. Debauched and beautiful. It made Greg 's breath catch. Mycroft drew in a ragged breath and seemed to pull himself together. He looked down at Greg , a light smile playing on his lips.

"My congratulations, Detective Inspector, you managed to surprise me."

Greg let out a half laugh. "Yeah, surprised myself too." He got to his feet. Snorted and then, leant forward over Mycroft. "And I don't care what we normally do, but if I suck cock, you have to kiss me after." And he bent down and took a hard kiss before straightening up and starting to sort himself out.

He risked a glance at Mycroft and paused, caught by the odd, confused expression on the other man's face. Mycroft held his gaze for a moment and then it was all tucked away, and he was his normal self again, a snide twist to his lips, condescension writ large.

"You realise my cleaners are going to be most unhappy about my floor."

Greg laughed and shrugged. "Bit of soda water'll do it, probably."

"I suppose you expect me to clean that?"

Greg considered saying yes, but sighed. Well, he would be embarrassed to have dried cum on his office floor. He grabbed some tissues and took the bottle of water Mycroft proffered and did a quick clean up.

He got to his feet. "There, now I'm scrubbing your bloody floors. Look what you've reduced me to."

"Yes, it's…delicious," said Mycroft and when Greg looked up at him, startled, he saw actual appreciation in the other man's expression. It tugged at Greg and he frowned and looked away, making for the door where he'd hung his jacket.

"Anyway, better be off. Pleasure as always, Mycroft."

"Indeed. Until next time Gregory."

And Greg let himself out, quickly shutting the door before he said anything embarrassing.

* * *

It was three pm, by rights Greg should have been at this desk finishing up a report but instead here he was zipping up his fly, watching the man he'd just fucked across his expensive looking desk button his waistcoat. They'd been doing this now for over a year.

"Can I offer you a drink, Greg?" Mycroft asked, no hint of the broken, rough voice that had been gasping out his name five minutes earlier.

"No, thanks, got to get back to work, paperwork to finish yet," said Greg. He pulled on his jacket. He couldn't stay and have a drink with Mycroft, because that would mean he liked _him_ and this was more than what it was, which wasn't anything other than regular fucking. Nothing else.

Mycroft nodded, he pulled on his coat too, smoothed his hair. "Ah, of course. Well, don't let me keep you, my big strong Detective Inspector." And he smiled politely, coolly and Greg nodded as well, dismissed.

And that's what this was about wasn't it? He was Mycroft's bit of totty, bit of rough he liked the look of and called round whenever he felt like being had. Sometimes he wondered what Mycroft would do if he ever called _him_, told him to get his arse over to New Scotland Yard and get on his knees. But he couldn't even comprehend anything more- dinner? Movie? Snuggling on the couch with Mycroft Holmes? They were too different. He was pretty sure Holmes didn't even actually like him. He was sure he secretly thought he was as stupid as Sherlock always told him he was, but was too polite to say it to his face. And as for how he felt about Mycroft…that was something Greg never examined too much because it confused the fuck out of him.

* * *

Mycroft poured himself a whiskey after Gregory left. This was becoming intolerable, yet the thought of not doing this was equally insupportable. It had been obvious from the first that Gregory Lestrade was not interested in him as anything more than sexual relief. He had known it, accepted it, been glad for it. After all, that's all he had wanted. Now however he was beginning to wonder if maybe he wanted more, a foolishness that would not end well.

He never tired of that handsome face, the way Gregory's eyes fluttered closed as he gave into the pleasure, the way he kissed so defiantly as if he was doing it to spite himself, the way he bit his lip and bit back words when he came.

* * *

Greg was out with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a bizarre evening. Sherlock was apparently on a quest to get John laid, which had surprised Greg because he thought the two of them had been together for a while now, ever since John had broken up with his girlfriend to go back to Baker Street with Sherlock. It had been a thought that had made him not feel so strange about his thing with Mycroft – if John Watson, war veteran, doctor, generally nice bloke was happily shagging Sherlock Holmes than maybe he wasn't so weird for wanting to do the same with Mycroft. Apparently John wasn't and he was, weird that was. Greg was still ostensibly dating other people, but what with working late, weekends with his kid, fucking Mycroft, finding time to meet someone, let alone date them was practically impossible. Sometimes he wondered if Mycroft was seeing other people. He never asked; he imagined it was probably none of his business.

Somehow Sherlock had managed to entice two intelligent attractive women to their table. Both were lawyers and one, Miranda, had even heard of him. Greg felt a bit rusty but soon enough he was flirting so successfully with her that after a few more wines she had her hand on his leg and her tongue in his mouth. At some point John had gone to dance with the other one and Sherlock had left.

"Let's get out of here," Miranda suggested and Greg wasn't going to say no. John and the other one, Kate, Greg thought she said, returned to the table and after Kate was put into a cab, Greg and Miranda went back to hers.

The sex had been fine, nice to be with a woman after so long, but he left first thing and two days later he still hadn't found time to call her back and when he did she was busy so that was that. He didn't think about the fact that the whole time they'd been in bed together he'd been trying not to compare her with Mycroft Holmes. And then there was all the baggage and complications that came with dating, and it suddenly all seemed so difficult, especially when he could get a good trouble-free shag at least once a week, no strings attached. The vague sense of guilt didn't help either.

It was on the second day that he remembered that Mycroft usually had Sherlock tailed. He should have known though that nothing got past Mycroft Holmes, especially where Sherlock was concerned. A low level feeling of anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach and he tried to ignore it.

It was over a week after he'd shagged Miranda before he heard from Mycroft. He hadn't really wanted to think about there being any connection but the low level of anxiety merged now with guilt and apprehension when the usual day for a shag came and went. And then the next week, to the point that Greg was almost ready to call Mycroft himself. It was Friday afternoon before he got a call. He told himself it was nothing – sometimes Mycroft was too busy – and also, even if something was up, they weren't exclusive, it was just sex, there was no understanding or agreement. He came when called, did his duty and left. There was no expectation of fidelity.

All the same his palms were sweaty when Mycroft's PA gave him a nod and told him he could go in.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, cluttered for once with a pile of paperwork that he was still going through. A bad sign. Mycroft always had his desk bare when he met with Greg for sex – clear surface.

"Afternoon Mycroft," said Greg.

"Ah, Detective Lestrade, good of you to stop by," said Mycroft briefly glancing up. His voice was clipped and cool. He grabbed a folder and flicked it across the desk in Greg's direction. "I need to give some sensitive information to Sherlock and he's not answering his phone, as usual. Would you mind?"

Greg frowned, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He tried not to show he was disappointed or worried or…hurt. "Right, yeah, of course." Then he caught himself. So he if wasn't here for sex, this was not worth his time. "I'm not a bloody courier service you know. Get one of your flunkies to drop it off next time."

Mycroft looked up at him coolly, eyebrows raised, lips thin and pursed. Disdain. "As you wish. Good afternoon Detective Inspector."

Greg pursed his lips, breathing through his nose. Right, he was getting the brush off. He hesitated. Well fuck it, if this was going to be over, he might as well find out why. "Just so I know, did you just get bored or are you pissed off because I had sex with that woman?" He didn't ask if or how Mycroft knew, of course he knew, Mycroft always kept tabs on Sherlock and he should have remembered that if Sherlock was there, so was Mycroft's surveillance.

Mycroft's tone was cold. "I was hoping to avoid a melodrama. Our...connection…has run its course. Let's leave it at that."

Greg felt annoyed and guilty but mostly that this was entirely unfair. "Oh don't give me that. I finally get a leg over with someone other than you and suddenly you're off the whole thing, when only last week you were –" he stopped. "Doesn't matter. Fine. I should have kept her bloody number if I known you were-"

Mycroft had stilled, his hands frozen on the desk.

Greg chewed on the inside of his cheek. A year ago he'd have walked out without a qualm, but that had been a year ago. Now he wanted to change Mycroft's mind, didn't want this to be it.

"You can't just go and change the rules without telling me, then get angry at me for breaking them," he said, frustrated. "If you don't want me to see other people just say so. Fuck I've been to enough bloody marriage counselling sessions to know you have to talk about these things."

Mycroft snorted and looked at him. "And what would you have said, Detective Inspector? Yes I will give up on a potential heterosexual relationship so I can keep sucking your cock? You expect me to believe that?"

"I'm still here sucking your cock after a year aren't I?"

Mycroft smiled a thin smile. "Apparently, despite the charms of Ms Miranda O'Brien."

Greg sighed, he'd guessed right, it was Miranda. "Yeah, well, I assumed you were still getting off with the boys in MI5."

Mycroft chuckled. "You seem to have an inflated opinion of my sexual appetite Gregory."

"Look. I don't know what this is, it was always just one more time and suddenly we're in a long term relationship. I thought you didn't care if – anyway for the record, she was nice but I preferred…." He waved his hand to indicate the room, the situation, everything it entailed. "This. Whatever it is we're doing."

Mycroft frowned and looked down, as if he found that hard to believe. He cleared his throat, glanced up at Greg. "Thank you, Detective Inspector. Now if you'll excuse me, I really am quite busy. Perhaps some other time?"

Greg sighed. "Fine, right." And he grabbed the file for Sherlock and strode out of the room.

* * *

Mycroft sat still for a long moment after Greg shut the door. Then he grabbed his phone, dialled quickly.

"Gregory? The afternoon has suddenly freed up. Come back?" He counted one, two, three, four long seconds before Gregory spoke.

"Yeah, all right. Great plonker."

Mycroft had to smile. And then the door opened again and Gregory Lestrade shut it firmly behind him, locked it, threw off his coat, tossed the file on the floor and marched over.

Mycroft scrambled to his feet, gripped Gregory by the shirt front and pushed him against the wall, teeth clashing as their mouths slammed together. Gregory's hands were pulling at his waistcoat and shirt, and Mycroft pulled his own hands away from Gregory's shirt for long enough to struggle out of his suit coat and then he was unbuttoning Gregory's shirt, moving his mouth over his jaw, sucking at his ear, neck, pushing up his undershirt, to expose the smooth torso underneath, still trim and taut. He slid his knee between Gregory's, grinding his hips in a way that made the other man gasp. All the time feeling Gregory's hands: on his side, his neck, his hair, his arse; and Gregory's lips, on his, on his cheek, throat, shoulder.

He drew his lips back to Gregory's ear. "I don't _share_ Gregory. Now, get on your knees."

* * *

A sound escaped Greg's lips that he knew he couldn't have made, it sounded so needy. He slid down to the floor at Mycroft's feet and fumbled at his trousers but Mycroft batted his hands away and joined him, kneeling on the floor, finding his lips again for a moment before slipping around behind him, flush against Greg's back.

"Not _that_ way, Gregory," Mycroft said against his ear and Greg's eyes fluttered closed, his heart pounding as realisation dawned. "Don't worry, I'll be very, very good."

And as with everything else in this _thing_ they did, Greg placed himself in Mycroft's hands and let him have his way.

Sometime later, when Greg collapsed forward on his arms, Mycroft heavy and limp against his back, he had to admit that Mycroft had been right. He wasn't sure he'd be the same again, now that he'd discovered buggery. He rubbed his sweating brow on his forearm and slid down fully onto the floor, Mycroft sliding down beside him. He turned his head to the side to look at the other man. He looked as much as mess as Greg felt, face red, hair awry, completely naked save for his shirt hanging about his shoulders. He looked alive and aglow and happy and young. And Greg reached out and ran his hand over Mycroft's jaw. He made a small sound of amazement.

"Lovely," he said.

Mycroft turned to look at him, caught his hand and kissed it. "I could say the same."

Greg smiled. "You'll be the death of me."

"Death by sex, there are worse ways to go," noted Mycroft.

"Mm," said Greg. He lay there, looking at Mycroft for a while. "Do you even like me, Mycroft," he asked suddenly.

Mycroft looked at him in surprise, his brow crinkling. "Insecure Gregory? You've no reason to be."

Greg snorted and rolled onto his back. "No, just – ah never mind," he said. He slowly got to his feet, snagging his underwear and trousers. He would really need to nip home first for a shower before he went back to work. Mycroft was still on the floor, propped up on one arm, watching him.

"Yes," he said suddenly. "I do like you Gregory. And not just for your immeasurable sexual appeal."

Greg grinned. "Yeah? Good. You're not so bad yourself, for a pompous arse."

And Mycroft did grin then and laugh, a proper laugh. "Your pillow talk however leaves a little to be desired."

"You give me an actual pillow and I'll show you pillow talk," said Greg and then blinked because it was true, they'd never actually done this anywhere but here, in Mycroft's office. It seemed like a fatal flaw in their…whatever this was.

Mycroft may have had the same thought because he frowned as well. "Perhaps," he said and got to his feet as well, pulling on his pants and trousers.

Greg finished pulling on his clothes. "Beds are overrated anyway," he said. "Right, I'm off. Glad you forgive me." He gave Mycroft a quick peck on the cheek.

Mycroft grabbed his wrist before he could get any further and pulled him back, crushing his mouth to Greg's. "Not quite yet," he said firmly and Greg felt a shiver run down his spine.

He let out a breath, eyes caught by Mycroft's piercing gaze. Nodded, then detached his hand from Mycroft's and left.

* * *

Mycroft left his office soon after Gregory. He found himself unable to concentrate and felt the urgent need for a brisk walk and a stiff drink. It was moments like these when he felt utterly alone. Of course he didn't really want anyone else knowing his private, innermost thoughts, but sometimes he desperately wanted someone to confide in. Since Mummy passed away there'd been no one. Sherlock – well…Sherlock would only use his confusion and distress as a source of mockery. Although Sherlock had recently finally admitted his feelings to John and they had consummated their relationship…but no, Sherlock would be Sherlock and would toss all his admonitions about caring not being an advantage back in his face. His chums at the Diogenes club and his other friends would not like to be burdened with this level of intimacy. No, there was no one, aside from Lestrade himself, that Mycroft could discuss this with.

He thought it had been over, had resigned himself when he discovered that Gregory had spent the night with a woman, seen the painful CCTV footage of the pair entangled outside the night club. It had been obvious that Gregory had found someone else. He had some dignity, he hadn't needed to hear Gregory's empty platitudes, he'd steeled himself to move on, establish a replacement connection once his tedious emotions had settled themselves.

But then…today…the surprise, hurt, confusion on Gregory's face as if he'd been expecting another romp as per usual. And although it had never been Mycroft's intention, suddenly he had demanded fidelity and shockingly, Gregory had seemed to accept.

He'd let Mycroft take him. An aesthetic pleasure as much as a physical one to press that strong, fit body down, be the first to breach that body with his flesh, hear the raw, primal noises his lover made as he took him.

Gregory's sudden insecurity afterwards had been endearing but Mycroft had to stop himself from saying more. It would not be prudent, foolish in the extreme to suggest that romantic emotions were involved rather than pure sexual desire.

Sherlock had won the heart of his John. Mycroft sometimes envied him that recklessness that allowed him to risk so much, throw caution to the wind and give in to emotion. It would make no difference however, if he did, Gregory would never accept, would be repulsed, would end this. Mycroft would take what he could get, for now.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** and in this chapter, some obligatory Johnlock

**Part 3**

The idea to call John Watson came to Greg Lestrade as he sat flicking his pen against the never ending pile of paperwork on his desk. If anyone would understand what it was like to be involved with a Holmes and not judge him for it, it was John. God knew he needed to talk to someone. It had been nearly a year and a half now. And they were meeting often twice a week now. It was getting harder to keep from saying something embarrassingly emotional to Mycroft – for all the man let on he didn't want anything more from Greg than sex and loyalty.

The fact that John and Sherlock were now _actually_ together was common knowledge at New Scotland Yard. It had been hard to miss. Donovan had been teasing John as usual about Sherlock, and Sherlock himself had walked past, obviously overheard and stopped, said, "oh for-" and firmly kissed John in front of the entire team before walking off. John had frowned, glanced over at Sherlock and then, said "Yeah, actually, we are shagging." And that had been that.

He picked up the phone and dialled. "John? Pint?"

* * *

John was pleased when he got a call from Lestrade, asking him if he fancied a pint. Sherlock was in a post-case fugue and he'd just managed to get on John's last nerve. John had bitten his tongue all week and had refused to take offence, 'it's just Sherlock' had become his mantra, but deliberately emptying all the milk down the sink while staring John down challengingly had been the last straw.

"Know what?" said John. "I'm going out. You enjoy your own company tonight."

Sherlock didn't even flinch and stood at the sink, glaring at him as he walked out the door.

"How's the other half?" Greg asked when John pulled up a seat next to him.

"Don't ask. I will throttle him if we don't get a case soon."

Greg chuckled at that. "You are a stronger man than me, John Watson."

"Masochistic you mean," said John. He shook his head. "Just need a breather. And a beer." He picked up his pint and took a long sip. "How's things with you?"

"Not too bad, could be better," said Greg. "Got the Chief Superintendent breathing down my neck at the moment and we just lost my best officer to Manchester."

John nodded sympathetically. He watched Greg toy with his glass.

"Actually John," he said after a moment. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"You and Sherlock, you're happy together, mostly, I mean?"

John couldn't help smiling at that. "Yeah, yeah we are. He's…well it was good but it's better now."

Greg looked down, studying his glass. "I'm seeing Mycroft," he said after a moment. "Well…when I say seeing, he sends a car for me, we – uh well, anyway, then I get sent home again."

John tried to keep his expression neutral, non-judgemental. He wondered if he should mention that he already knew. "Um…Sherlock did mention-"

"Oh God? Did he?"

"Sorry."

Greg sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Fuck, well he's kept quiet about it, I s'pose that's a blessing."

John frowned. "He um, doesn't want to think about it too much, it's his brother you know."

"Yeah, s'pose not. Well, so much for my confession. What do you think?"

John shrugged. "I can't talk. You like him? Love him? Good sex?"

"It's fucked up. I don't know, I don't even like men, but he-"

John groaned in sympathy. "Tell me about it, I never thought, but anyway, there we are and I love him and- well – sex with him." At Greg's expression, John added. "Sorry, too much information."

"No, well, don't really want to think about you two going at it, but it's…nice to know. I don't know, don't know if I want more, want it to stop, don't know what he wants…"

"Have you talked about it?"

"With Mycroft Holmes? Are you mad?"

"Yeah, point."

"Guess I should. What's he going to do? End it? Might do me a favour."

John drained his glass. "My round, same?"

"Yeah, thanks."

John checked his phone as he waited at the bar. One text, from Sherlock.

_I may have been a prat - SH_

John texted back.

_Excellent deduction. Having a pint with Greg. Home later._

A moment later his phone buzzed.

_I bought more milk - SH_

John smiled.

_Amazing!_

_Is that sarcasm? – SH_

_No honest to god amazement. Come out and join us if you want. _

_No. Come home soon. Think I might be sexually frustrated. –SH_

John shook his head. He decided not to point out that Sherlock had been too busy sulking the last few days to notice to his overtures.

_A medical emergency then?_

_Yes. I need my doctor. – SH_

_How bad?_

_Hmm how bad would it have to be to get you to come home now?- SH_

_Um, well can't actually, Greg needs to talk for a bit. But hold that thought._

_Cock tease. – SH._

_Language! Is that any way to speak to a medical professional?_

_It is when he's blue balling me. – SH_

_You're so dramatic. Will be home later. Or come and get me if you can't wait._

John got the beers and went back to Greg. He checked his phone one more time. No response, so either Sherlock was sulking or he was on his way. As much as John didn't want to abandon Greg, the idea of the latter did give him a warm glow.

"Well, if it's any consolation, Mycroft really does seem to care about Sherlock, I don't think it's _all_ about controlling him. So, you know, he is capable of normal human type emotions."

Greg snorted. "How the hell I got myself into this I'll never know." He took a long swig of beer. "Anyhow, did you see the match last night?"

* * *

Greg was enjoying the saneness of John's company, just two mates talking rubbish, drinking, watching sport. They were on their fourth pints when Sherlock arrived. Greg fought back the urge to blush. Sherlock knew, of course he knew. He felt like he was beyond embarrassment now and to be honest, he was beginning to wonder why exactly he felt he should be embarrassed anyway.

Sherlock stood next to John for a long moment until the other man looked up at him, a pleased grin on his face. "You have to have a drink with us before I go," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode off, reappearing a few minutes later with something dark and amber in a scotch glass. He plonked down on the chair next to John.

"Lestrade," he said.

"Sherlock," said Greg. "How's the detective business?"

"Really Lestrade, isn't it enough that I'm forced to sit here and drink this…mediocre scotch, without having to make small talk?" Greg knew he should have been expecting that.

"You have to make small talk too," said John.

"Really?" Sherlock actually whined.

"Yep."

"God, the things I do for sex."

Greg laughed. "So…Sherlock…" he said, smirking. "How's work?"

"Dull, all boring cases. I'm going out of my mind with tedium. All John does is work and when he's around he's constantly harping on about petty things like how I never buy milk." He glared defiantly at John, who just looked amused. "There. Happy? Can we go now?"

"One drink," said John raising his glass.

"Might have something for you to help with," said Greg. "Will let you know the details tomorrow."

"As long as it's not a waste of my time."

"You could always do the shoplifting case?" John said, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine! Yes, send it to me," said Sherlock.

John shot Greg a grateful look and returned to their conversation about the football. Greg noticed Sherlock casually throw his arm over the back of John's chair and run his fingers along the other man's neck. John glanced at him and they smiled at each other, warm, affectionate, before John turned back to Greg. It made something clench inside Greg, he wanted that, wanted that easy warmth and obvious affection.

He hadn't felt it with Miranda, but maybe he should have tried harder, something had been holding him back, the feeling of disconnect, as if she was the wrong person. But Mycroft? Could he have this with Mycroft? Sometimes there were moments that came close…

After Sherlock had finally dragged John home, Greg pulled out his phone. It was a stupid impulse but he'd had four beers and he was feeling lonely and damn it, what was the point of having a fuck buddy if you couldn't call them for a fuck?

"Gregory?" Mycroft sounded bleary, as if he'd been asleep.

"Mycroft, hey," said Greg. He took a breath and forged ahead. "Want to come over to mine?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"It's…eleven pm, Gregory. Come by tomorrow."

"I'm asking you now, Mycroft," said Greg, pushing the point. "_I'm_ asking _you_."

There was a pause and Greg realised with sudden clarity that to Mycroft it would seem that he'd initiated a power play. "I don't think so, Gregory, we'll talk tomorrow."

Greg hung up, frustrated and annoyed.

* * *

Mycroft did ring the next day.

"I'm free at two, I'll send the car."

"No, Mycroft. I'm busy."

"Really Gregory, there's no need to b-"

Greg interrupted him. "I am busy actually. If…if this is supposed to be an exclusive thing then you have to do this at my convenience too sometimes. And I prefer it at home, at night, to be honest."

"Ah. I see." There was a pause. "Very well. I'm free tomorrow evening."

Greg blinked. That was easy. He looked at his calendar. "That's no good, I'm watching a game that night."

"I can watch a 'game' with you." Greg could hear the inverted commas.

Greg grinned, amused at the thought of watching football with Mycroft Holmes. "Yeah, why not. Come round at eight then. You know the address?"

"I'm sure I can find out."

"How about I just give it to you, like a normal human being?" He rattled off the address of his sad little two bedroom flat, wondering as he did, what Mycroft would make of it.

"Tomorrow night then," said Mycroft.

And Greg had to resist saying 'it's a date'. "See you then," he said instead.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **And where I try to fudge my way through some football/soccer talk, I'm trying to use UK terminology, so football = soccer, and rugby = rugby union. I hope that is right!

**Part 4**

Mycroft smiled politely at Mrs Hudson as she let him into 221B Baker Street. He went up the stairs and rapped sharply at the door to Sherlock's flat.

John answered the door. "Mycroft," he said, warily. John was always wary whenever Mycroft spoke to him, it was really getting quite tiresome.

"Dr Watson. Is my brother in?"

"Living room. He's just been given a case so he's a bit – well, you know."

Mycroft found Sherlock lying on the sofa, staring into space. He leaned over his brother.

"Sherlock, I wish you would answer your phone."

Sherlock didn't even look at him. "Go away Mycroft. I'm busy."

Mycroft sighed. "I have some information for you. About our…mutual friend."

Sherlock glanced towards him for a second. "Leave it on the table."

It was frustrating. How hard would it be for Sherlock to just _talk_ to him, have a friendly chat? Once upon a time it was all Sherlock wanted to do. Mycroft could still remember hiding in the attic at age eleven so he could read in peace without his four year old brother bombarding him with questions and tales of his new 'discoveries'. Now Sherlock insisted in taking everything he did and say as a personal attack or attempt to manipulate him.

"Tea, Mycroft?" John asked politely, putting a cup down on the floor next to Sherlock.

"No. Thank you, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft. "I really would like to discuss this matter though with Sherlock while I'm here-"

Sherlock sat up with a growl of frustration. He snatched the file from Mycroft's hands and flipped through it. He glanced up at Mycroft, eyes suddenly alive and bright.

"I thought you'd be interested," said Mycroft pleased with this small success. Amusing his brother was the only way left he had to connect with him.

"Mm," said Sherlock, returning to the file. "The Ukraine…Lestrade is going to have to wait."

Ah…hopefully Greg didn't really need Sherlock's assistance…

Sherlock must have caught something in Mycroft's expression. "You need to tell him," Sherlock said.

Mycroft kept his expression carefully blank. He'd assumed Sherlock would have deduced his relationship with Gregory a long time ago, he supposed he should have expected a comment sooner or later. "I don't know what you're talking about." He noticed John look up from his laptop.

"Tell him how you _feel_," said Sherlock shortly, saying the word 'feel' as if it was an expletive.

"It's really none of your business Sherlock."

"He's our friend," said John quietly. "And you're family. So. We care."

"And don't give me that caring is not an advantage speech," said Sherlock. "Being an obtuse moron is not an advantage."

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush, whether in annoyance or embarrassment at being lectured about his personal life by his brother and his brother's partner, he wasn't sure. Had being in a relationship with John changed Sherlock so much? Deceitful hope bloomed that maybe-. He pursed his lips and leant on his umbrella. Very well. "Are you certain you want to have this conversation with me, Sherlock? I thought you'd decided personal confidences were distasteful."

"Of course not," said Sherlock, waving the idea away. "Lestrade's moping to John about you, it's interfering with our sex life. So – fix it."

Ah. Mycroft wasn't certain whether he was disappointed or relieved that Sherlock's reason for 'caring' wasn't altruistic. But…Gregory, moping? And feeling comfortable and confident enough to tell John about their association. That was…interesting…promising? He hadn't felt the need to instruct Gregory not to tell anyone about their liaison because he'd assumed that the man wouldn't want anyone to know. His pleasure at being proven wrong on this point outweighed his disgruntlement at having his personal business revealed to John and possibly to Sherlock – sometimes his brother was incredibly thick, maybe he hadn't known.

"Well. Don't trouble yourself. Gregory is a grown man, he is more than capable of discussing any issues he may have, with me."

John looked dubious, which was annoying.

"I'm not a monster, Dr Watson, despite what Sherlock may imply. Gregory is completely free to end our arrangement at any time, and, to be indelicate, given Sherlock's recent penchant for wearing lipstick, I'm fairly certain our liaisons are far more conventional than yours. I'm not chaining him up in a dungeon, if that's what you're thinking."

Hah. John had turned a satisfying shade of red and Sherlock had even managed to look a touch embarrassed.

Mycroft inclined his head politely. "Now. I'll leave that information with you Sherlock. Good day. Dr Watson."

"Mycroft," John managed, still beet red.

Sherlock waved absently, engrossed again in the file Mycroft had left him.

Mycroft had just shut the door to 221B Baker Street when he received a text.

_He's a good man. He'll make you happy. Tell him. –SH_

Sherlock? Sentiment? Mycroft smiled to himself, unreasonably pleased at this positive thought from his little brother, then flagged down his town car that had been circling the block.

* * *

Mycroft knew Gregory was financially strained thanks to his divorce but he hadn't realised the extent until he saw the living arrangements he was reduced to. He walked up the three flights of stairs and then knocked on the door of the number he'd been given, for a brief, awful moment, considering the possibility that this was some practical joke on Lestrade's part and the door would be opened by a crack whore. But no, it was Gregory who opened the door, a different Gregory to the one Mycroft usually saw. This Gregory was dressed in jeans and a loose long-sleeved t-shirt, he was wearing football socks. Mycroft found the look very appealing.

"Mycroft! Come in, will be starting in a few minutes."

Mycroft handed him the carry bag he'd brought. "I believe beer is customary on these occasions?"

"Oh! Good on you, cheers," said Gregory, taking the bag and shutting the door behind Mycroft as he stepped inside the flat – equally as dingy on the inside. Gregory put the bag on the kitchen counter and looked inside. He lifted out one of the bottles, looking at the label. "What's this one? Never tried that before."

Mycroft leant his umbrella by the door and removed his coat, hanging it over a chair. "It's from a micro-brewery, I quite enjoy it."

A wide amused grin spread across Gregory's face, it made him look young and so handsome that Mycroft ached. "Course it is, come on, take one and have a seat."

"I don't really follow football to be honest," Mycroft admitted as he took a seat on the battered old sofa in front of Greg's medium sized television. "I played rugby at school."

"Yeah?" Greg seemed pleased by this information. "What position?"

They talked rugby and then football, while the game got underway on the television. Gregory was tantalisingly close and it had been over a week since they'd been together, Mycroft couldn't resist shifting slightly so his foot touched lightly against Gregory's. He saw Gregory notice and glance over at him, a small crinkle on his brow and then a crooked smile. Mycroft almost jumped when Gregory reached over and rested his hand on Mycroft's. He blinked as Gregory looked at him and grinned before turning back to the game.

Gregory had ordered in a terrible pizza but Mycroft politely ate three slices, drank two beers and then, pushing his luck shifted close enough to Gregory that their shoulders touched. Gregory shifted and suddenly his arm was around Mycroft's shoulders. He glanced at the other man and saw Gregory's eyes flickered to his, that same, amused grin gracing his expression.

"This is nice, yeah?"

"It is," Mycroft agreed. He put his hand on Gregory's thigh and rested his head back against the other man's arm.

* * *

Greg relaxed against Mycroft, it was nice and surprisingly comfortable. He'd felt suddenly nervous and awkward when Mycroft had arrived, wearing his normal three-piece suit of course – did he even own any other clothes? – but the poor man had looked so ill at ease himself that Greg's sense of chivalry had asserted itself. It was endearing the way Mycroft was trying, he'd even bought beer, fancy stuff, but beer all the same. It had been a relief to discover he played rugby, that was something Greg could talk about. And then the game had started and it seemed natural to just…move closer. He was looking forward to later, had even changed his sheets. The expectation of sex sent a tingle through him straight to his groin. He squeezed Mycroft's shoulder and shifted his thigh closer.

He turned his head and found Mycroft looking at him. Greg licked his lips and leant forward meeting Mycroft in the middle for a kiss.

Suddenly the crowd roared on telly and Greg pulled back to see what he'd missed.

"Oh you're kidding me!" he yelled at the screen and he heard Mycroft laugh, felt a hand again on his thigh and Greg cuddled closer, and didn't mind when he felt Mycroft press his lips to his shoulder.

"Mm," said Greg and reached his other hand over and slid it under Mycroft's waistcoat. He was feeling horny now, but he still wanted to watch the game. He leaned over and nuzzled at Mycroft's jaw while keeping one eye on the tv.

"Oh for-" Mycroft said and suddenly he shifted and was kneeling on the sofa beside Greg, mouthing at his ear and neck, one knee inserting itself between his thighs, Mycroft's hand pushing up under his shirt. "Still see?" Mycroft asked.

"Um, yeah," Greg croaked. He cleared his throat. "Yeah." He tried to concentrate on the game as Mycroft sucked at his neck, ear, throat, shoulder blade, as his fingers brushed over his chest, stomach, down over his jeans, as his knee pressed against his hard on. To Greg's disappointment, Mycroft drew back, but he just removed his suit coat and then he returned, practically straddling Greg's lap now, as Greg tried desperately to remember to pay attention to the game, especially when Mycroft slid down on to the floor in front of him and undid his jeans.

"Oh bloody hell," gasped Greg. Watching football while getting head: fantasy right there. He ran his hand through Mycroft's hair, mussing it up nicely, and sat back to enjoy. He knew he wasn't going to be able to watch a football game on telly the same way again.

* * *

"Fuck, oh bloody- Mycroft, god," Gregory gasped out as he orgasmed. Mycroft kept his mouth on Gregory until the tremors finished and then he sat back, wiping his mouth. He was painfully hard. Gregory's face was flushed and he looked delicious. Gregory half-laughed. "Fuck the game." He reached for the remote and turned off the tv, getting to his feet and reaching out a hand for Mycroft. "Bed, now. Your turn."

Mycroft let Gregory lead him into a small dull looking room, dominated by a double bed with a bland coloured duvet. Gregory pulled the covers back and then stripped off his shirt, turning back to Mycroft. Mycroft let him unbutton his waistcoat, unbuckle his belt and undo his trousers, stepping out of them as Gregory pushed them down so he was left in his shirt and briefs. He was achingly hard and couldn't wait any longer. He pulled Gregory to him, kissing him deeply, pressing his erection against his thigh. Gregory groaned against his mouth and then pushed his own jeans and pants to the floor, stepping back and naked, pulling Mycroft with him to the bed.

"Can have me, if you want," he said, voice rough.

Mycroft could think of nothing he wanted more. He fumbled in the pocket of his discarded trousers for condom, pushing Gregory back down onto the bed, parted his thighs and knelt between them.

* * *

It was different, being had this way, face to face. Greg could watch Mycroft's face, eyes dark, all the lust and desire making him pale yet flushed across the cheeks at the same time. And this just felt better even than last time, now he knew how to relax into it, was getting used to the sensation of being filled and taken, the blinding sparks as Mycroft hit his prostate. He was hard again, arousal a slow burn now the edge had been taken off with Mycroft's blow job. Mycroft was taking this slow and steady, biting his lip, pausing, trying to take his time.

"Fuck, this is good," breathed Greg.

"You are the most beautiful man I've ever been with," murmured Mycroft. Greg swallowed, the dark, smooth voice, sending curls of desire through him.

"You're fucking hot, you know that?" he gasped.

"And you are delicious my strong, handsome policeman," said Mycroft with a twist to his lips. "Going to make you come again, come with me inside you."

"Please, yeah," said Greg, he gripped Mycroft's hands with his own.

"Beg me Gregory, beg me to make you come."

"Please Mycroft, make me come, please…"

Mycroft groaned, bit his lip harder and stilled, before starting up again. Greg could see he was trying to stay in control so he reached for his own cock, stroking firmly to help along the process. Mycroft shut his eyes, thrusting harder. And soon Mycroft was gasping out his name, and Greg was arching under him.

Afterwards Mycroft left the room to dispose of the condom and then came back and grabbed his clothes, starting to dress.

"Stay," said Greg, from the bed.

Mycroft finished pulling up his underwear and paused for a long moment. Then he dropped his trousers and returned to the bed, sliding next to Greg.

"You haven't given me a chance to show off my pillow talk," Greg told him, turning on his side to face him.

Mycroft smiled, a real smile not snide or condescending. "Impress me," he said.

This amused Greg and he chuckled lightly before reaching out and running his knuckles over Mycroft's jaw. The man's nose was too pointy, he had a receding hair line but those eyes, that mouth, bloody hell, wasn't he just sex personified?

"You are so sexy," said Greg in a low voice. "I can't stop thinking about you. I want you all the time. I'm sitting at my desk and you call and I get hard just hearing your voice."

Mycroft's breath caught. He reached over and traced his fingers from the shell of Greg's ear to this collar bone. "You are the most perfect man I've ever met. I could touch you for hours and still not be satisfied, after we've been together my fingertips still remember the feel of your skin, my tongue - the taste of your lips."

Greg swallowed hard. "Your voice…god…it's like honey." He chuckled. "You win."

"I wasn't competing Gregory," said Mycroft softly.

"I…I know." The fact that Mycroft was here, in his bed, speaking romantically to him was overwhelming. "You're a genius, and all right I know, despite what your brother says, I'm not completely stupid but I'm not a patch on you. We've got nothing in common except for Sherlock. You're interested in sophisticated things, I like going down the pub for a pint and watching sport on telly. Apart from the fact that we both like to shag, what, exactly do we see in each other?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, and Greg thought he looked suddenly pained. "In you…I see…beauty, strength, honour, I see someone like me; consumed with work, overwhelmed by stress, trying to do the best and right thing, and I see a tired, lonely man who I wish to give some comfort to. Is that wrong?"

Greg felt his heart stop, just for that moment. He cleared his throat. "No. That's…not wrong." He shifted closer and put his arm around Mycroft, pressed his lips to Mycroft's shoulder. "That's…perfect."

Mycroft opened his eyes again. "Is it just sex for you Gregory?"

"No," said Greg. "Not anymore."

"Ah, good," said Mycroft. He turned into Greg's arms, slipping his arm around Greg's waist.

"You," said Greg with a deep breath. "Would have to be the most impressive man I've ever met. I don't understand you, you overawe me, the things you do to me…no one else- I'd like to know you better…is that…would that be ok?"

Mycroft didn't answer. Instead he trailed his fingers through Greg's hair, watching his face with a pensive expression until they both eventually fell asleep.

* * *

It took Mycroft a micro-second to realise where he was when he awoke the next morning, Gregory Lestrade was a pleasantly heavy weight across his leg and arm. He was still asleep, his face young and beautiful when relaxed, all those cares that seemed to weigh on him swept away. Mycroft resisted the urge to touch Gregory and instead just lay for a while and observed.

He hadn't 'slept over' at a lover's home for nearly ten years. Emotion, sentiment, these were all dangerous things, there was no advantage… yet…he found himself wanting to be affectionate, to be _more_ with Gregory.

Mycroft shifted carefully, trying to slide out of bed without waking Gregory but the policeman stirred as he slid his arm out from underneath.

"Morning," Gregory mumbled, a lopsided smile forming on his sleep softened features.

"Good morning," said Mycroft, a burst of warmth in his chest stilling him for a moment.

"Can I make you breakfast?"

"No, I should go – I need to go home first, I hadn't intended to stay."

"All right." Gregory rubbed his hand over Mycroft's back. "Thanks for last night. It was great. I had a great time."

Mycroft had to smile, why was Gregory so endearing? "I did too."

Gregory sighed, as if he was disappointed it was morning. "All right. Give me a kiss before you bugger off then," he said.

Mycroft meant to just kiss him lightly, but as he touched Gregory's sleep warmed skin, felt his mouth part under his, he couldn't help deepening the kiss. He drew back reluctantly, still wanting more, wanting to see Gregory again. "Tomorrow…if you are free…would you like to join me for dinner? My home? I have an excellent chef-"

Greg rubbed his eyes and laughed. "'Course you do. Yes, that would be great."

"I'll send you the details." He slid out of bed and dressed quickly before he was tempted to return to bed and stay there all day. He retrieved his phone from his suit coat and called for his town car.

"I'll wait outside. Good day, Gregory."

Gregory meanwhile had been lying indolently in bed, lazily watching him, arms folded behind his head, showing his biceps, tempting him like an Adonis. "Tomorrow then," he said. He stretched and groaned. "God, I don't know if I can wait."

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, walked back to the bed and kissed Gregory fiercely. "Tomorrow." He said firmly. "I have meetings and I don't think the Prime Minister will accept 'I had to pleasure Detective Inspector Lestrade' as a reasonable excuse for non-attendance, do you?"

Gregory grinned. "You never know with those political types. Probably be jealous. Go on then, get that sexy arse off to work."

And Mycroft felt that same warm glow, nodded, grabbed his umbrella and coat and left.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

My gosh I wrote 14960 words on mystrade... oops.

**Part 5**

Greg felt like a lovesick teenager. He kept looking at the clock, waiting for today to be over and for it to be 7pm tomorrow. Mycroft's assistant had sent through an Outlook appointment for 7pm at Mycroft's address. Seeing Mycroft that morning, still sleep tousled, more open than he'd ever seen him before had made him want to just…oh…hold him and not let go maybe. It was ridiculous he hadn't felt like this since he was in his twenties. And last night…sex aside…it had been, nice, comfortable, it was the first night in a long time that he hadn't even thought about his ex-wife or his exhausting job. Mycroft had become the bright spark in his week long ago, and now, maybe he could be more than that.

He was called out to a crime scene, which was good in that it took his mind off the time for a bit. Sherlock and John were helping briefly, something about a plane to catch in two hours. Anderson managed to get on Sherlock's last nerve and Greg noticed John put his hand lightly on Sherlock's back and after a few words, Sherlock seemed mollified and launched into an explanation of his solution to the case, showing off for John, which John watched with uncontained admiration. They were good together and Greg felt that same longing.

"Honestly," Sally said when the two of them had left. "Don't know how John does it. Can you imagine going home to _him_ every night?"

"Wouldn't be too bad," Greg heard himself say. "I'm shagging his brother and it's pretty nice actually." He looked at Sally, shocked by the words that had tumbled out, and saw her staring at him in surprise.

"_Sherlock_ has a brother?"

"_Sherlock has a brother?_" Greg repeated. "That's what surprised you out of what I just said?"

"Well, I knew you were shagging some bloke, didn't know it was Sherlock's brother. You mean there are two of them?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Mine's got manners," he said and walked off.

Later that afternoon back at the Yard, Sally knocked on his office door. "Word sir?" she asked.

"What is it Donovan?"

"Um, about, well I know I go on about Sherlock and John, but that's because Sherlock's an arse, I don't have a problem with you being…a gay."

"Course you don't Sergeant, this is the twenty-first century and the Metropolitan Police Force which has no place for homophobia." Greg raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Then he smirked. "But thanks, yeah."

"No problem sir. And if you ever need to, talk to someone, God knows I've cried on your shoulder enough times about Anderson."

Greg gave her a crooked grin. "Thanks Sally."

"See you tomorrow, sir."

Greg looked at the clock. Five pm. A whole day and a two hours before he could see Mycroft again. On a whim he picked up his phone and dialled. No one said anything about not talking on the phone tonight.

"Gregory?"

"Got a minute?" Greg asked.

"Yes, is there a problem?"

"No. Just thought I'd call. See how your day was."

"Long. I…I'm looking forward to tomorrow night."

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. "God, me too."

"Gregory…" Mycroft's voice sounded rough and he cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could move that appointment forward…James will be put out but I'm sure he can rustle up a meal for us both."

"Really? Yes. I mean, if you're sure? God, I want to see you."

"Oh Gregory…I-" Mycroft voice caught. "Yes. I do too. Tonight. Seven."

"I'll be there."

* * *

Mycroft put his phone down and looked around the large oval table in the meeting room. "I do apologise, carry on Madam Chair."

He listened distractedly as the interminable meeting slowly drew to a close –6.05. Calling his assistant to make arrangements, he hurried out of the building and into the waiting town car. He was home by 6.42, enough time to shower, dress and check in with his housekeeper who informed him that James had dinner completely organised. With a sigh of relief, Mycroft went to wait in the drawing room.

At 7.05 his phone rang.

"Mycroft….god…I am so sorry."

His heart sank. "What is it Gregory?"

"Murder. Knightsbridge. Got to attend. Could be a long night. I'm so sorry."

"Damn."

"Yeah, that wasn't the word I used."

Mycroft swallowed. "Would…would you like to come here afterwards?"

There was a pause. "It would be late."

"I don't sleep much. I wouldn't mind."

"All right. If it's not a bother."

"Will you have eaten?"

"I'll probably get something on the way to Knightsbridge."

"I'll get James to keep something warm for you anyway."

There was another pause. "I am sorry."

"I know. Can't be helped."

"Yes. I'll see you later."

* * *

It was 11 pm before Greg was able to leave the crime scene. It had been an easy one, plenty of witnesses, murderer apprehended, just the paperwork to finish up. Still, it was bloody typical, the one night he had actual plans...criminals were bloody selfish. He got a lift to the address Mycroft had given him, a fancy looking home in Hampstead. He rang the doorbell and was surprised when Mycroft himself answered the door, he'd almost been expecting a butler. Mycroft was in pyjamas and a grey satin dressing gown.

"Hello Gregory," he said. "You made it."

And Greg felt his heart lurch to be so welcome and so wanted. "Yeah, sorry I'm late."

Mycroft's lips twitched into a smile. "Come in, you must be exhausted."

Greg followed him in, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on hooks by the door.

"Are you hungry?" Mycroft asked.

"No. But if you'll have something I will."

"I could have a night cap. Kitchen's this way."

The kitchen was bigger than Greg's whole flat. He perched on a stool by the kitchen island while Mycroft pulled a tray covered with foil out of the oven where it had been keeping warm.

"Leftovers, I'm afraid."

It smelt good and Greg was suddenly famished. "Looks good," he said and helped himself to a chicken leg.

Mycroft took two glasses from the cabinet and poured some brandy. He handed one to Greg and then sat opposite.

Greg felt suddenly tongue-tied. "Thanks for waiting for me," he said.

Mycroft 's expression as he looked at him took his breath away. "I wanted to see you."

"Me too," said Greg.

"I'm afraid I may have become…" Mycroft licked his bottom lip and seemed to consider his words. "Attached to you. Emotionally. I hope – I hope that won't be problem for you."

Greg felt like his stomach was full of butterflies, ridiculous, but that's how it felt. "You, um," he felt his face flush. Then he broke into a grin. "You love me?"

It was Mycroft's turn to blush. "I am exceedingly fond of you Gregory, yes."

Greg laughed then. "Um, yeah, that. Me too, feel the same about you too." Mycroft looked almost bashful, and he looked down and tried to still his smile. Greg knew he was grinning stupidly too. He swallowed. "I told someone about us today. No one who knew you, but, still, it felt good. Was…is that ok?"

The look on Mycroft's face, so _pleased_, made Greg's chest feel tight. "Yes. Yes it is." Mycroft smiled lightly. "Actually, the whole of the Urban Planning Sub-committee now knows I'm seeing someone called Gregory."

"Oh," said Greg. He took a sip of brandy, the room seemed too small suddenly, he couldn't look at Mycroft.

"It is getting late. Shall we go to bed?" Mycroft asked, his voice slightly rough.

Greg put down his glass. "God yes."

* * *

Mycroft's room looked like it belonged in some sort of Gentleman's Own bordello. It was tasteful but decadent. Huge, huge four poster bed. Drapes, carpets, wall hangings, gold and black and velvet and satin. Paintings of voluptuous naked women. It was sex. Upper class, decadent, sex.

It was actually a relief, all the same, Greg wouldn't have been completely surprised if Mycroft had led him to a sex dungeon.

Mycroft cupped the back of Greg's head with one hand and smiled at him crookedly. They kissed. Slow, deep. Greg tugged at the ties on Mycroft's dressing gown until they gave way and then he slipped his hands around the other man's waist, slid them down over the satiny pyjamas to his arse and pulled him flush against him. He could feel that Mycroft was already hard, felt hard himself. Mycroft pulled back and then started undressing Greg. Coat, shirt, belt, trousers, underpants, until he was standing there naked but for his policeman's black socks and a raging hard on.

Mycroft's eyes were dark. He slid his dressing gown off and then still watching Greg, unbuttoned his pyjama top, discarded it and then shed his pyjama pants, so they were both naked.

Greg couldn't wait any more and he closed the distance between them, capturing Mycroft's mouth and moving him deliberately towards the bed.

* * *

Gregory moved above Mycroft, kissing him with his mouth, exploring him with his hands, strong, firm, capable hands. Their erections slid against each other with delicious friction and Mycroft tasted and touched and wanted and pleaded and breathed and gasped and begged until Gregory reached between them and fisted both their cocks together and they came as one, sweating and gasping and kissing.

"I love you, god, I love you," Gregory breathed against his ear. And Mycroft felt as if he was breaking into tiny shards because he wanted this too much and it was exactly perfect. He whispered Gregory's name, over and over and held him close, tight.

"I love you Gregory," he said, finally. And he felt strong arms squeeze him and warm lips brush against him and felt Gregory's mouth curve into a smile.

* * *

Greg Lestrade woke in Mycroft's Room Of Sex as he was mentally calling it, spooning Mycroft Holmes and feeling absolutely happy. He shifted his hold and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's shoulder, then with a happy sigh settled comfortably back for more sleep. He felt Mycroft shift and he covered Greg's hand with his own. He heard the other man give a contented sigh.

After a moment, Mycroft rolled over so he was facing Greg.

"Good morning," Mycroft said, studying Greg's face.

"Hey, morning," said Greg. He grinned. "Very good morning."

"Is it?" Mycroft's tone was sweetly insecure.

"Yes," said Greg firmly.

Mycroft smiled, concern melting away. "Good."

"Don't worry, I've had a year and half to get over my heterosexual panic and accept the fact that I'm hopelessly devoted to you."

Mycroft smiled crookedly. "You know this won't be the easiest of relationships Gregory."

"It won't be the hardest either."

"I will demand complete monogamy."

"Done. And me."

"Of course."

"I can't see you much more than I do, but I'd like to spend more nights with you, have dinner maybe, do some stuff together. Non-sexual stuff."

"I'm sure that can be arranged. Perhaps we could go to a symphony together? Or the theatre?"

"Or a football game?" countered Greg.

Mycroft laughed. "Or the ballet?"

Greg bit his cheek, Mycroft was teasing him, _Mycroft was teasing. _"I think my daughter would like that," he said trying not to crack.

"Ah, your daughter. Perhaps when you are comfortable-"

"Yeah, I'd like you to meet her, just, I need to lay some groundwork first."

"Of course."

"Did you ever want kids Mycroft?"

Mycroft frowned, considering this question seriously. "I assumed, when I was younger…but as time went on I decided that it wasn't something that would fit within the parameters I'd defined for my life."

"I always wanted kids, when Emily was born was the best day of my life." Greg closed his eyes, feeling suddenly guilty. "She's taking the divorce hard."

"My parents were divorced. Mummy tried to spare us the worst of it, but neither Sherlock nor I were stupid children. Sherlock was quite young of course, so he didn't understand completely, but he did miss Father."

"Must have been hard on you."

"Oh decidedly, but we coped. Children are resilient. At least you still see your daughter. We were cut off completely from Father."

"Bit hard, I suppose your mother had her reasons?"

"Father had his reasons, a new wife and a new family."

"Oh." Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand. "That's a bit fucked."

"A bit. Yes." Mycroft smiled tightly. "Well, enough of this depressing topic. Do you have to run off or can I pleasure you one more time before I kick you out of my bed?"

"I think I can fit in being pleasured one more time," said Greg, feeling Little Greg jump to attention.

"Wonderful," said Mycroft and kissed him. He paused. "By the way, your bed is awful. If we're still going out this time next year I shall start pressuring you to move in with me."

Greg felt a momentary pang of commitment phobia but it eased away by the long time frame and the surfeit of 'if's'. "I can live with that," he said as Mycroft started moving down his body. "As long as you keep doing this."

"Agreed," murmured Mycroft and kissed the soft skin beside his right hip bone. "Anything."

* * *

Two Years Later

Mycroft took a seat in Gregory's office. The other man was on the phone, to his ex-wife judging by his body language, tone and the constant references to his daughter. The tension was radiating off him.

"She's not being spoilt."

There was a pause while his ex-wife spoke.

"She has chores. She has to help James in the kitchen."

Pause.

"The chef. And she makes her bed and cleans her room."

Gregory rolled his eyes.

"It's not my fault she likes Mycroft better than Geoff. I like Mycroft better than Geoff."

Long pause.

"Well of course he bought her a pony, that's what rich people do for their kids. Buy them ponies and give them violin lessons and –"

Gregory gave Mycroft an apologetic look.

"Yeah well I'm not so sure 'Uncle' Sherlock is a good influence either but he's got her practicing violin religiously and studying chemistry, so he can't be that bad."

Another long pause.

"Oh…she said she enjoyed that did she? I'm glad. I thought she'd like the Nutcracker."

Pause.

"Well just think about the school. I'm not saying she has to go there but it's an option-"

Another pause, Greg's leant over the desk and put his head in his hand.

"You should be glad Emily's getting such a diverse upbringing, good for kids, keeps them grounded."

Pause.

"Don't be like that-"

Pause.

"Look, as long as there's not going to be a problem about Saturday- I didn't cause a fuss at your wedding."

Pause.

"I don't care what your mother says. I won't send her a photo if she's got such a problem with it."

Pause. The volume of Gregory's voice was increasing.

"And I'm pretty sure the bible has something to say about adultery too."

Pause.

His tone lowered. "Sorry, I know you don't- just it's really important to me that Emily's there. You know that."

Pause.

"Yeah. All right. Thanks, appreciate that."

Pause.

"See you Saturday."

Gregory hung up the phone and grimaced at Mycroft. "Sorry," he said. "Katherine sends her regards."

"It will be fine," Mycroft said firmly reaching across the desk and taking Greg's hand. "Emily will be there."

"I know. I know." Gregory rubbed his other hand over his eyes. He straightened up and smiled. "It will."

"Can I take you to lunch?"

Gregory squeezed his hand. "Yes, good idea, I'm famished."

"Can't have my fiancé fading away to a shadow," said Mycroft and he handed Gregory his coat and the two of them walked out of the office.

**The End.**


End file.
